TEAM TORTUGA - THE POST

I met Geraint, Colin and Gary at SOMA this morning at 11am for a team training ride.    If the weather has been anything, it’s been consistent.  Consistently challenging.  But we approached today with the same sort of indifference that seasoned riders gather after years of discipline. We were planning on motorpacing today after about an hour and a half of riding. But, the specter of motorpacing in February conjures up many feelings-mostly deep-seated angst as mortal rider is pitted vs. an unfeeling machine.  So the group was just slightly off balance as we began our ‘warm-up’ in 35 degree temps under gray skies.

I have had the good fortune of learning the nuances of both ends of motorpacing back in the mid-1980s as a young(er) Cat2 racer.  I was having trouble making the leap from Cat 3 at the time.  I was OK, but barely hanging on at the end of the big races.  I had the power, but not the sort of extended-top end required to stay up front in national caliber events. I was living in Vermont and I had a motorcycle that I used for commuting to work at the bike shop.  I had just gotten the call to race for a regional Cat2 team and we had done some drafting behind our cars, but it was dangerous and the driver was disconnected from the cyclists.   So my training partner and I set up my Yamaha 400 Special with a touch bar for safety and a bike rack to carry a bicycle.  We would train for a about an hour and a half each through the valleys in the Green Mountains. 

Today, we designed a short warmup ride to swing back around by my house after an hour-plus of riding.  My computer indicated 22 miles and an hour and 15 minutes.  At the west end of Bethel, I split off and went back to my house, took off my wet upper layer, unplugged my battery from the charger, threw on several layers of winter wear and headed out to Anderson to meet the trio. I was wearing a ski mask and a cycling helmet so that I could easily communicate with the team.  My motorcycle is a bit bigger than I am used to for motorpacing so today was a little experimental.  It’s a Suzuki 800 Intruder cruiser.  My goal today was to be able to take the team safely through a speed workout that was challenging but not exhausting.  Also, I wanted to learn where the speed pegs needed to be set on the little rises and descents on our 10 mile out and back on Anderson.

We kept the rules simple.  The driver (me) was in charge of the experience today and responsible for the safety of the team.  When I had to shift, and there was a slight engine braking of the team I would ease the clutch and gas the throttle to maintain our speed.  If there was a car behind us I would beep once as it approached.  I would wave the car by when I thought it was safe.  I would keep a keen eye out for holes and debris in the road.  In situations where I couldn’t communicate with the train behind me, I would speed up and away from the group until it was safe.  

So today’s final result was that we topped off our ride with 10+ miles of high quality work.  We averaged about 25+ mph for the 10 miles.  We spent most of the flat middle sections at just below 30mph and the boys were up to the task of managing the slight variations in speed as their trust and confidence increased.  Toward the end, we were cresting the small climbs at 20+ mph.  The line tightened up and the tempo of the group was synchronized.  About then we passed a large group of students riding the other way.  They were spread out across the road, a patchwork of jerseys.  A smile came across my face as we hurtled past them in single file.  A precise, disciplined team training with a purpose. 

I was a little angry on the bike today.  But I wasn’t sure why.  Could’ve been a variety of things all coming together. My back has been a little sore lately, not debilitating, just that nagging, general, sciatica-type annoying pain.  My racing weight wasn’t dropping fast enough.  The endless snow and cold temperatures were continuing to add to my seasonal affect disorder, with more snow on the way tonight.  The Olympics are on with their perfect athletes in their glory days always racing against the clock.  All reminders of my mortality. 

I was hoping to get out at 1pm today when the temperature picked up a degree or two, but a quick check of the weather this morning sent me quickly, almost frantically to change into my cycling gear. I sent a desperate Twitter out, like a message in an e-bottle, but no one picked it up.  It was overcast but Doppler showed a window of at least a few hours.  So I threw a waterbottle in and a fuel bar in my outer jacket pocket and hopped on the bike. 

I decided to go it alone and rode a familiar course.  You know this one.  It’s the Bethel Rd, to 45 to South Shore and back on Robinson and Old 37. It has a little bit of everything, long flat sections, rollers and a few pitches. It’s just under 30 miles the way I do it.  I did this same ride with newcomer Jason U yesterday and had a little trouble with the speed in some spots. I set out this morning, with a few flurries falling, in a hurry but in the small chainring and was managing a nice tempo early on.  I had a few adrenaline surges as the dogs along the route (and I know where they all live) seemed to be waiting for me.  That old German Sheppard near Yellowood was literally waiting on the edge of the road and lunged for me! “HEY!” I yelled. Assuming an alpha-male posture-whatever that means.   A couple of boxers (brothers, no doubt) came running out in the road after me before the descents to Lake Lemon, giving up the chase only when they saw I had selected the perfect gear for my escape!   The others along the way, mercifully chained or in their cages, nonetheless announced me to their ilk further up the road.

The adrenalin helped me negotiate the pain a little longer as I crested the few hills along the way.  I am not the climber I once was but today I recalled some of those same feelings from years ago out here alone on these barren climbs. Races in the Green Mountains of Vermont-Stowe and Killington, Bromley and Burlington.  The long steady climbs through the gaps in the mountains.  Never looking back, just listening to the breathing of my mates slowing fading away.   I was letting the pain in rather than pushing it away.  Now, believe me, I wasn’t going that fast.  You would’ve been able to keep up with me, but I was in a different place now, watching from a little deeper, measuring cadence and breath and power like a violinist measures notes and pressure on the strings.  I flipped into my big chainring and turned onto SouthShore.  I settled nicely into a cold cadence, somewhere in the 80s and my speed was somewhere in the 20s along with the temperature.

I saw a small group up ahead. About 6 men, two abreast, maybe 50 something. They were just getting to that small, beautiful spit of land on South Shore, two lane’s worth, between the railroad tracks to the South and the lake to the North.  The pavement here seemed smoother than I remembered. The cold temperatures I had been battling were replaced by a feeling of warmth and a small drop of sweat fell to my bars.  They were wearing wool apparel and riding vintage bikes but this didn’t seem odd at the time.  All around, lake and field and hill, covered in pristine snow. As I got closer and attached to the slipstream of this welcome train, bleary-eyed, a strange feeling of numbness worked its way through my shoulders.  The rider in the rear turned and said, ‘Welcome Tom.  We’ve been expecting you!”

I conducted a cycling experiment yesterday in which I was the subject.   I drive.  A lot.  I mean, a real lot.  I live in Bloomington but work in Noblesville.  Many of you don’t know this because, well, like a good cyclist, I really don’t complain a lot.  Except to my wife, but she knows how to handle my bluffing.   It’s a 72 mile commute, one way.  Now don’t get me wrong, I love my job, I am making a difference and I am adding to the GDP.  But I am using a lot of gas and probably singlehandedly increasing Indiana’s carbon output, which I don’t feel great about.  So, I have figured out a way to semi-commute.  Here’s how it works, in theory.  I drive to work on Monday and then back home Monday night.  On Tuesday, I drive to work (bike on the roof and a change of clothes in the car), but on the way home (about 6:30pm) I stop in Martinsville, parking somewhere in town, and cycle 22 miles home down Mahalasville to Low Gap to Anderson and Old 37.  On Wednesday morning, I leave the house at 5:00am, cycle the same 22 miles to Martinsville, get to my car, and drive the 50 miles to the office, etc., and so on, doing this until other reasons prevent it (like getting a life).   

Back story.  I’ve been having this dream lately.  It’s a derivative of my hunter/hunted series in which I am the latter of the two.  In this variation, I am cycling hard and a mysterious, shadowy person is in pursuit.  I usually wake up in a sweat.  He has never caught me.  Also, I’ve been an epic night commuter before.  When I worked at Cannondale and lived in Bridgeport, CT I would cycle to work and back (20 miles one way) through Fairfield county.  In Vermont, as a bike shop mechanic in Manchester I would cycle from Weston on Route 100 to the bike shop and back almost daily over Bromley Mountain.  

So, I decided to start this macabre commute this week, or at least try it out.  Yesterday I drove up to work, bike on roof, change of clothes in the car, lights charged, winter cycling kit loaded.  I was having trouble staying focused late in the day so I left a few minutes early to beat the rush to route 69 S.  I changed along the way (please don’t try this) and in just over an hour I was in Martinsville.  The sun was setting and the temperature was just above freezing.  I was eager to get started as I was looking at this more like an event than a commute.  Lights. Check.  Toe warmers.  Check.  Car locked.  Check.  Off we go.  I hit it pretty hard, turning the lights on just after getting to Low Gap a few miles later.  The road was deteriorating just as it was getting really dark out.  But my lighting system was doing its job and I could see the road and pick out the potholes and debris.  I was able to navigate the eastern edge of the Morgan Monroe State Forest without much difficulty.  I turned onto Anderson, threw in a windup at one of the World’s sprint point lines, turned toward home on Old 37 and finished up over firehouse hill. 

Now, I felt pretty darn good about pulling this off.  I was able to save a gallon of gas, get a ride in, not be too disruptive on the family and get home in time for Idol.  I washed and dried my kit, charged the batteries, checked over the bike.  I had to call it an early night because, to make my time check (for work) I needed to be at my car for about 6:15am.  So I would have to leave at 5:00am to ensure this.   However, the night passed uneventfully and I hit all the right buttons (not including the snooze) in the morning, brought along a water bottle of hot tea and was on the bike and out of the door at 5:00 sharp.  The cold was breathtaking and the quiet was deafening.  Yesterday’s climb up firehouse hill at the end of my ride was a welcome increase in warmth, this morning, it was a bone chilling roller coaster descent right at the start. Time and space seemed out of synch as I turned down Anderson.  The utter darkness, the extreme cold and the small beam of light all conspired to create this surreal sensation, compressing time but lengthening distance.  Landmarks that were familiar on these often traveled routes were now set at great distances from one another.  I turned up Low Gap and realized that I would be generally ascending through most of the forest. My speed was falling; 18, 17, 16 mph.   I was standing hard on the pedals as I climbed through the forest.  The bare trees bordering the road cast eerie shadows as my headlamp scanned for critters.  I heard a crash in the underbrush as a deer tap-danced across the road some distance behind me.  The road was broken up badly as I picked my way through this section, becoming aware of my labored breathing, watching this barren landscape through the condensation in the cold beam of light.  I kept thinking of those dreams that I had been having.  I felt a chill on my back that wasn’t from the cold.  “Stay focused.”  I think I said out loud.  Then I broke through the forest.  The road leveled out.  The potholes were replaced with a centerline.  The lights of Martinsville appeared in the distance. 

I got back to my car after being out for only an hour and 12 minutes.  It had a thin sheet of ice on it.  I put the bike on the roof and as I looked up toward the waning moon I saw the constellation Orion, the hunter, high in the Southern sky.  I started the car, wrapped myself in a blanket and headed toward work.   

You missed another opportunity to sample the dark depths of your emotional resolve today.  A small group met at SOMA at 1:00pm for a little out and back to the far flashers on 446 today with temperatures hovering in the low 30s.  The total distance was to be about 55 miles.  I knew that I was going to be late, so I was planning on chasing most of the afternoon.  This frame of reference put me in a unique state of mind that was to work in my favor. I left my appointment just east of town at 1:15, and not certain that the group was in front or behind me, I decided to go pretty hard to the lee side of Knightridge.  Along the way, I was looking for the telltale tire lines after the damp spots in the road.  Seeing none, I turned down Knightridge, opposite the way that we race during the World’s.  Soon I met the hardy group.  Ryan, Adam, Tom C, Colin and Geraint were to form the gruppo compacto for the foreseeable future, or the next few hours. 

There was some nervous chatter on this very cold afternoon as we turned onto 446 and headed South.  The pace was surprisingly robust for this time of year and I was glad that I decided to bring my race bike and not my Winter ride (although the others had, what appeared like their back-up equipment). It’s about 20+ miles to the flashers.  Pretty soon it became apparent that this wasn’t going to be a casual ride.  The tempo was fast and all took fairly equal turns at the front.  We had a bit of a desperate situation heading out of the causeway when Adam turned a high tempo up the long climb.  I was on his wheel for about ¾ of the climb when I began to falter.  Colin was able to step up to the challenge and crest the top with him.  The rest of us rolled up to the two leaders thanks to the herculean efforts of Tom C. 

After regrouping the pace never let up.  Colin had to turn back after an hour on the ride to manage some family affairs.  I didn’t see him turn back, but if I had I may have joined him.  Clearly strongmen Ryan, Adam and Tom C were in charge on this one, so props to them.  They pulled longer and harder than Geraint and I were able.  But there is no shame in hanging on.  Despite the high speeds, I was able to dig deep and manage the gradual ascents on the way out.  Geraint lost contact briefly in the last few hilly sections but chased superbly and nearly caught us at the flashers on his own, an effort that will pay dividends this season.   A quick bite to eat at the lights and we were halfway home. 

The way back started quickly and was identical to the effort on the way out.  But this time, the strain was evident on the balance of the group.  Ryan and Adam set a frenetic pace as the five of us hurtled back towards Bloomington.  The early rises proved to be too much for us as Geraint and Tom C decided to call it a day.  I was hanging on for dear life, unable to pull during miles 30-45.  My world became the blurry wheel in front of me.  The wind was blowing off the left front quarter and I was desperate for shelter in the gutter on the 27mph assault that the two boys were delivering.   My lips were numb as I desperately began searching for the right gear.  I was always a tooth or two higher than my colleagues and the effect of the big gear and miles was becoming cumulative.  Gaps were opening on the false flats and I was forced to re-connect through micro-chases for several miles. 

As we approached the North side of the causeway I lost the battle.  My mental state was being sabotaged by the day’s physical decay and it conspired against me.  I had fought the good fight but reasoned that there will be other days.  That’s where it ends for me.  Not there out on the cause way on the bike, but in my mind.  It wasn’t the moment I resigned physically, but the emotional events leading up to it that sealed that deal.  Sure, I was spent.  But I have been at this game for a long time and I know how to dig deep, follow the wheel and soldier on.  Understanding the events that affect your mental attitude are important tools for high performance racing. Sometimes, reason must be set aside in lieu of managing the ride.  Today, that reason crept in at just the right time.

Philosophy aside, I waited for a few moments and Tom C and Geraint joined me and we all cycled back to Bloomington, chatting excitedly about the upcoming season.  When I arrived home, about 3 ½ hours later, my wife asked me to peel a bag of potatoes while she went out for a run.  As I sat there in the chair, potato and peeler in hand, I thought of the punishment that was handed out today by my peers. A warm feeling of satisfaction washed over me as I relished in the fact that I was able to participate.   

When I came home from the ride today, some 5 ½ hours after I left, stumbling into the house like a drunk, clothes spattered in mud, my wife indicated that I had wasted another day.  Now, she’s partly right on this count as I have limited time with the family-I mean we all do I suppose-so pick your poison.  Mine just happens to be this sort of existential experience I gather being on the bike for unusually long periods.  I have a picture on a shelf in my study of the start of a late season race in 1985 in Connecticut.  It was my first Cannondale bicycle.  They were just introduced a couple of years before.  The concept of aluminum was fairly new then.  I was racing and working for them.  I took a lot of heat racing an oversized aluminum, US made bike in a sea of Colnago’s, Masi’s, Merckx and Pinarello’s.  These were not just the names of bicycles.  These were the great men of cycling.   When I was to travel to Europe a few years later to race for a season in Belgium, Cannondale’s still weren’t allowed under UCI rules.  So I had picked up an Atala frameset made out of Columbus SLX tubing.  

My Cannondale had those waterbottle cages that were velco and the bottle had a patch on it as well!  It’s a Fall afternoon with the sun at a steep angle.   I am just clipping into my cleats.  The Campagnolo track pedals had this little tab on the underside of the pedal when you scraped your shoe against it, the pedal cage elegantly flipped up and in you went. I would tighten my leather Binda toe straps in a revolution or two.   It was a hilly road race and I remember I had just gotten new shoes, they were leather Duegi’s with wooden soles.  They were wooden because you had to actually nail your cleats on to the soles.  In those days, you would ride for a day without cleats and the pedals would leave an indentation on the wood and you would align your cleat to this mark and nail it on with a hammer and tacks. I am wearing a leather hairnet in the picture, looking a bit like an old footballer-but we all did.  I still have the strap from my hairnet somewhere in the basement, the rest of it lost to sweat and crashes.  The photo captures my first pedal stroke of a long relationship with this bike.

A group of us met at Bike and Bean today for a longish ride on a warmish day.  It was in the high 40s with a Southeast wind blowing when I left my house at 10:30.  The flurry of emails this morning indicated that a group was interested in doing the Nashville 90 today.  Now, I have done the 90 before and I can tell you that it can make a strong rider call their girlfriends for a car ride long before you reach the town the ride was named for.  I’ll leave Nashville for March.  A man has to know his limitations.  But that’s the beauty of the bike.     

As usual, my kids ate all of my Clif Bars and the bread was still in the freezer so I got on the bike with just some fruit and an expired Gu I found in my race bag.  I met the group over at Bike and Bean.  Real friendly guys.  You would like them.  Tim on a LeMond and Don, the proprietor, on a nice cross bike.  Jason Urbanski and a former Turtle, Ren-jay Shei rolled up right at 11 as the bells rang at IU.  About eleven of us were there at the start and we meandered over to 446 and headed South.  Colin Allen joined us along the way.

The roads were wet and it was overcast.  The first flat occurred right on Knightridge near the 500m marker for the Wednesday Worlds (don’t try to find this as it’s just a tree that I have picked out during a reconnaissance ride!).  One of the IU riders punctured when a small shard of glass made it through the treads of an old tire.  We booted the gash with a wrapper from an oatmeal bar, all watched as he fixed the flat, then carried on.  Well, the fix didn’t take and we stopped again to correct a mile or so down the road.  We continued on and then another flat occurred on 446 out near the lake. By this time, Gary Palmer joined us (after a tough Ketcham hill workout) and a couple of riders decided to turn back (no correlation).  We just had a few miles to go to the flashers on 58 so a splinter group formed, bid Adieu to the 90 mile group in favor of a 100+K ride.  Me, Gary, Colin and Jason were joined by Kevin, Don and Tim.   We rolled along with a nice tempo and had some pretty good early season efforts up the climbs West of the lake and out by North Lawrence.  Don flatted and made quick work of getting back on the road.  By now I was hungry and cooling down.  The 4 strongest, Gary (despite his heroic pre-workout), Don, Kevin and Colin were setting the tempo up the climbs.  The other three of us were wondering when this was going to end! We got squeezed off the back on the route heading back on old 37.  Colin had enough about midway and I was able to bridge to him as we put together a shabby but successful chase that got us back in contact with the three over by the Starlite drive-in. 

Once through Clear Creek as we neared town our group slowly disbanded until it was just me and Jason left heading toward Kirkwood.  He pulled off in town and I headed back down Cascades.  I was on that same bike that I rode in that Fall race long ago.  It’s painted now, no longer black, but TDF yellow.  It still has its original steel fork.  I’ve upgraded the drivetrain over the years.  It’s still Italian, Campy Chorus, and I have a set of Ksirium wheels set up with a 10 speed cassette.  I’ve had to put a 9 speed chain on, and the shifting is a little finicky even though I still have downtube shifters.  But Italian powerplants were always that way. I shifted into the big chainring and heard the sweet sound of the chain dropping neatly onto the 53 as I headed for home.